Helpless
by Savage Midnight
Summary: When Jack falls sick, Riddick is rendered helpless.
1. Part I

**Title:** Helpless  
**Author:** Savage Midnight  
**Email:** savage_midnight@hotmail.com  
**Rating:** PG  
**Summary:** When Jack falls sick, Riddick is rendered helpless.   
**Disclaimer:** Any characters/concepts familiar to the Pitch Black universe belong to the creators of the film.  
**Feedback:** Constructive criticism is welcome; as an aspiring author I'm in dire need of it.   
**Author's notes**: Okay, this is my first Pitch Black fic in over a year so I might be a little rusty. On a warning note, this is pure comfort fluff (with a large dribble of angst) and deals with issue of child abuse. I want to thank ginnymae for helping me with the medical side of this fic and thanks to everyone who provided me with links at the AoVD message board.  
  
---  
  
**Part One**  
  
Jack clutched at her stomach, clenching her teeth fiercely as another cramp gripped her insides and _twisted_. She bit back a painful whimper and swallowed it down with a heavy gulp of air, feeling it rise back up in her chest and escape as a half-strangled hiccup.  
  
She wanted to cry. She was restless and exhausted; last night's sleep had eluded her, because the pains in her stomach had not ceased in the darkness. They had only grown in their intensity and now Jack was a whimpering mass of frayed nerves, curled up into a tight, uncomfortable ball. Her back ached but she knew if she straightened her spine the cramps would become a little more agonising and a little less bearable and Jack couldn't afford to break what little control she had. She couldn't afford to cry.  
  
But it was too late. A tremor rumbled through her stomach, rolling into a cramp that snagged at her insides again, tying them into knots and sending white-hot pain lancing up her spine and to her groin. She clenched her eyes shut and a lone tear squeezed it's way out from beneath her lashes.  
  
She felt it slide helplessly down the side of her cheek and watched solemnly as it dripped onto her pillow. She closed her eyes.  
  
_Save your tears, kid. You're gonna need 'em._  
  
Tears are a weakness, she thought bitterly. Riddick had taught her that. He'd taught her that tears were only to be wasted on worthwhile occasions. Death. Loss. Heartache. Even then her tears were only to be wept in private, because he'd warned her that people who would use them against her; they would twist her weakness into a weapon and she wouldn't even see it coming until those tears ran in crimson rivers.  
  
People were entitled to the occasional moments of weakness, he said, but people like them couldn't afford the luxury too often. Why waste it?  
  
She'd learned to save her tears, because she knew that one day she would undoubtedly need them. One day she would have no choice but to weep and sob, because she knew what it would mean if that day ever came. The thought of it was almost unbearable and now, as she lay, willing her tears to cease, she felt ashamed.  
  
She felt ashamed because Jack was on her _period_, and she was _weeping_. She was crying because she was in pain, because she was tired, and now the rising urge to sob louder and harder rose up, because Jack had wasted her tears on something so trivial. She'd wasted precious tears that she knew she would one day need and the guilt bloomed in her chest and sucked the air from her lungs.  
  
_I ain't always gonna be here to protect you, Jack, and when I'm gone, I'm gonna need you to be tough. You got that, kid?_  
  
God, two years on and her hormones _still_ managed to tear her self-control away. Every month since Riddick had rescued her and Imam from the planet, her periods had grown ever more painful, until Jack had been forced to lock herself in her bedroom for four days out of every month, just in case her tears happened to slip free. She didn't want Riddick to see, didn't want to catch the disappointment and shame glittering in his mercury eyes. She'd spent so long trying to convince him that she wasn't a liability to him and she wasn't about to jeopardise that now just because her treacherous body delighted in torturing her.   
  
She would soon get a hold of it, she was sure. Even now she'd learnt how to cope with the suffocating cramps. It was only occasionally that they reached such an unbearable pitch and it was on those rare occasions that she spent several days and nights trying to convince Riddick that no, there was nothing wrong and no she wasn't hiding anything from him, she just wanted a little time to herself. She often told him that these were her "personal days", time she took out of her busy schedule to relax and breathe a little.  
  
For the last six or seven months he hadn't bothered to question her about it and Jack planned on keeping it that way.  
  
She glared angrily at the wet patch on her puddle and caught a glimpse of a glistening tear from the corner of her eye. She lifted a hand to rub it away roughly and swallowed back yet another sob as a wave of nausea wiggled it's way through her stomach and up her throat. Her eyes burned, her head ached and her throat was sore and painfully tight. She was fatigued and achy. Quiet sobs bubbled threateningly under the surface and Jack wanted nothing more than to let them out, certain she would feel increasingly better if she did.  
  
But she couldn't and the thought depressed her even more. All she wanted to do was bury herself under her covers and sleep but the knots in her stomach refused to loosen and she knew the cramps would not cease for at least another day or two. No matter what she tried, the cramps came and went like clockwork and there was nothing Jack could do about it.  
  
Once she'd tried painkillers, hoping to sooth the painful cramps, but they'd only served to make her more nauseous and she'd spent a good part of the day throwing them back up again. Luckily Riddick had been at work. Unluckily, her dry-heaving had pulled a few stomach muscles and she'd been forced to remain in bed for an extra day that month. She never tried painkillers again.  
  
Right now, though, she was more than tempted to let Riddick knock her out with a well-aimed fist. She'd end up with a nice shiner at the end of it, but she felt it would be a worthwhile sacrifice, even if it did only grant her a few hours of peaceful sleep.  
  
Unfortunately she had a feeling Riddick wouldn't agree. It seemed she had no choice but to suck it up and stick it out for the next day or two.  
  
Just great.  
  
"Jack?"  
  
Riddick's voice filtered through her bedroom door and Jack shot a panicked glance towards it. She wiped at her eyes roughly and took a few gulps of air.  
  
"Yea--h." Another cramp twisted her insides, and her reply trailed off into a broken whisper. She hoped Riddick hadn't noticed.  
  
"You okay, kid?"  
  
She swallowed heavily and clutched at her stomach, tightening her grip in an attempt to stave off the cramps.   
  
"I'm--I'm good," she lied. She bit down on her lip, _hard_, but the pain was short-lived, replaced by white-hot fire that lanced it's way through her belly. She tasted blood but didn't care.  
  
"Jack?"  
  
Shit.  
  
"I'm fine, Ridd--ick."  
  
"You don't sound fine."  
  
"I--"  
  
Oh, _God_, why was this happening to her? Why she couldn't be like the other girls and have normal fuckin' periods? It seemed that ever since she'd landed on that planet her periods had constantly tried to kill her, whether it was by luring deadly creatures in her general vicinity or by squeezing her guts into tight, complicated knots that would undoubtedly suffocate her one day. Either way, she wondered what she'd done to deserve bodily functions from hell. She also wondered why she hadn't been born a boy. Life would have been a whole lot simpler if she had been.  
  
Jack remembered her first period. She remembered how her mother hadn't cared when her twelve-year-old daughter started bleeding all over the floor. Jack had panicked, because her mother hadn't bothered to explain what was happening to her. Jack had thought she was dying and her mother had thought it was funny. She'd spent the next three days locked in her bedroom, weeping and screaming because something _just wasn't right_. From then on, as the months dragged on and she'd learned from other sources what the regular loss of blood meant, she'd grown more wary of her own body. Every month she had feared that other changes might occur or that she would one day die from blood loss.  
  
Childish, really, but Jack had never had someone reliable enough in her life to explain these things to her. She'd had to learn from experience and this particular experience had left her with an underlining fear that her body would one day betray her. That fear had been reinforced during her time on the planet, when her body had not only put herself in danger, but others, too; others she had come to care about.  
  
It was times like this, when she spent days locked in her bedroom, that served only to drag up her miserable past; a past that came drenched in trauma and heartache. It was no wonder that she felt so depressed and weepy at this time of the month. The memories alone were enough to depress anyone, without the gut-wrenching pains making it worse.  
  
Jack heard the low beeping of the intercom and her eyes snapped back to the door. She listened, realising instantaneously that Riddick was letting himself in. With a half-strangled cry, she threw herself off of the bed and scrambled into the bathroom. She heard the soft hiss of the door and Riddick's heavy footsteps just as the bathroom door - a simple, wooden contraption with a heavy, brass handle - slammed shut behind her.  
  
She slumped against it and closed her eyes as angry waves of nausea rose up. Tears stung her eyes and she swallowed past the sudden lump in her throat.  
  
"Kid?"  
  
Go away. Go away. Go away.  
  
"Jack, open the door."  
  
"I'm--" Breathe. Swallow. Breathe. "--I'm not dressed."  
  
"Bullshit, kid. Open the fuckin' door."  
  
"Riddick, I--"  
  
The nausea rose up in her throat and Jack lurched forward, grabbing the old, porcelain toilet with two shaking hand. She drank in heavy gulps of air, but it did no good and it was with a strangled cry that her stomach emptied itself, drowning out the sound of the door opening behind her.  
  
"Jack."  
  
Oh God, Riddick, go away. _Please_.   
  
She didn't want him to see her like this. Weak. Emotional. Vulnerable. Not to mention the fact that she was ashamed and humiliated. She felt degraded, because the one person she looked up to and trusted was witnessing one of the lowest moments in her life.   
  
For a short moment her heaving ceased and she heard Riddick behind her, kneeling down to rub her back. He pulled the hair back from her face and the simple gesture brought more tears to her eyes. She was suddenly filled with an overwhelming love for him. Despite being at her weakest, despite being openly vulnerable in front of him, he was still taking care of her.  
  
He didn't scold her or lecture her, but simply waited as her stomach emptied itself completely. Her retching finally ended, leaving her breathless and trembling, and her skin sheened with sweat.   
  
She heard the toilet flush near her ear as her head came to rest against the cool lid. A loud sob escaped without her permission and she tried to swallow it back to no avail.  
  
Riddick most surely would have heard it, but right at this moment she didn't care. She sighed tiredly and closed her eyes.  
  
"I'm sorry, Riddick," she whispered absently, swallowing back the acrid taste that coated the back of her throat. Tears pooled onto the lid of the toilet and she felt the wetness of them against her cheek.  
  
Riddick didn't say anything and his silence only served to make her feel worse. Her earlier shame rose up and gripped her chest painfully and a heartbroken sigh cracked the air in the bathroom.   
  
He was mad. He was disappointed because she'd succumbed to the simple weaknesses of the body; weaknesses she should have been able to overcome. She had proved outright that she was a liability to him, one that Riddick could not afford. He would soon realise that he was in no position to be looking after a dysfunctional sixteen-year-old with the pain threshold of a dying rabbit and one day she knew he would be forced to leave her behind.  
  
She wasn't truly sure if she would be able to cope if he did.  
  
She heard the heavy shuffle of feet behind her and reluctantly pushing herself up from the floor, she turned around only to find him gone.  
  
She dropped her gaze to the tile floor beneath her feet and brushed at the wetness on her cheeks angrily. She hiccupped and swallowed past the painful lump in her throat, stepping through to her bedroom and closing the bathroom door behind her. With heavy, glistening eyes, she peered up towards the open door of her bedroom, only to be greeted by a dark, silent hallway.  
  
"Sorry," she mumbled softly and wrapped a protective arm around her waist, tightening it around herself in another attempt to stave off the cramps that had not abated in the wake of her sickness. Her groin ached and pain lanced up her spine and down her thighs, pulling her muscles into tight, uncomfortable knots.  
  
God, she would kill for some sleep right now. It had been a good thirty hours since she had slept and now she was getting restless and agitated. Her mood swings were setting in and in the silence of her room, she shifted seamlessly between angry and depressed, frustrated and resigned. Her misery brought stinging tears to her eyes, and her anger dried them.   
  
She settled down on her bed and rubbed tiredly at her eyes. She hiccupped loudly and flopped back onto sweat-soaked sheets, curling herself back into the same fetal position as earlier. She closed her eyes and listened absently to the soft buzzing of the silence, which was suddenly and unexpectedly broken by the thudding of familiar boots.  
  
She cracked an eye open to see Riddick standing beside her bed, a washcloth cradled in one, large hand. She opened her mouth to ask him what he was doing, but her voice couldn't seem to find its way past her tongue, which lay thick and heavy against the roof of her mouth.  
  
"Relax, kid," Riddick said, settling his heavy frame down on the bed beside her. The washcloth in his hand came to rest against her forehead and she welcomed the refreshing coolness of it against her skin.  
  
This isn't normal, she thought solemnly. Cramps, yes. Mind-numbing cramps, definitely. But vomiting? That wasn't usually part of the package and Jack silently contemplated the thought that maybe this wasn't a result of mere period pains.   
  
It was with a pitying moan that she reluctantly admitted to herself that she was sick. Jack. was. sick.  
  
God, this wasn't happening to her. Jack hadn't been sick for years and she'd hoped to keep it that way. Whenever sickness did manage to take a hold of her, it was with a firm, harsh grip which always left her bed-ridden, and it seemed that this time was no different. She would undoubtedly be in bed for more than four days this month.  
  
Just great.  
  
She peered up at Riddick's looming form as she felt the cloth move to sweep the curve of her cheek and the length of her neck. She smiled gratefully at him and grabbed his large wrist in her small hand.  
  
"Period pains," she croaked, by way of explanation. She felt miserably childish saying it but he deserved to know the reasons for her inability to stand upright and talk coherently. Even now, as she lay wallowing in her own self-pity, he was taking it upon himself to take care of her.  
  
Here he was, known convict and natural killer, nursing a teenage girl who was in no way his responsibility. He'd wasted time on her, teaching her the most important lessons that would later prove to be a necessity, and for three years had protected her and supported her, financially and emotionally.   
  
Jack was sure she would never find a way to show him how grateful she was. He'd saved her in more ways than one, on more than one occasion and Jack knew there was no reward big enough to repay her saviour. She only hoped he knew how thankful she was, and how ashamed she felt for betraying the lessons he had instilled in her.   
  
In spite of her shame, she loved him intensely. She loved him as much as any sixteen-year-old girl could, with the devotion and the loyalty of a daughter, and the passion and recklessness of a young woman. In the last three years her faith in him had not wavered and it was in moments like these that her faith was strengthened and redefined, again and again and again.  
  
In her childlike naivety, Jack truly believed she had weakened his faith in her, and her young, loyal heart broke at the thought.  
  
"Jack."  
  
Riddick's deep voice vibrated through her thoughts, pulling her attention back to his steady gaze. His mercury eyes bore into her own and she was silenced by the quiet concern she found there.   
  
"They usually this bad, kid?"  
  
Another cramp snagged at her insides as a shocking, painful reminder. She whimpered softly and nodded her head in reply.  
  
"This is--ah, different," she gasped, curling her hands into fists and digging them into her stomach. Riddick's face disappeared from her line of vision as her eyes fell shut.  
  
"How's it different, Jack? Come on, talk to me."  
  
She swallowed. "I don't--_God_, I don't know."  
  
"I'm taking you to the hospital," she heard him say gruffly, and with a shrieking cry she flung her eyes open. "No! No, Ri--"  
  
She gasped as white-hot pain burned through her insides. "--no hospitals, I--"  
  
Riddick wasn't listening. Already he had her small body cradled in his large arms and in three, long strides he was out of her bedroom and heading down the hallway. "I know you don't like hospitals, Jack, but this ain't normal."  
  
He was right. She didn't like hospitals. In fact, she damn right despised hospitals. She'd been forced to watch her father die in hospital. He had been one of the few people she'd actually cared about as a child. Though her mother had always treated him with a large degree of indifference, he had never abandoned her and instead had withstood her mother's cold misuse of him for the sake of his young, budding daughter.  
  
Her frail, eight-year-old heart had broken the day her father had died. All she remembered was the sound of her mother's relieved sigh as the nurses unhooked the life support machine, and as she had wept angry, desolate tears, her mother had simply said, "done?" and turned to saunter down the corridor.  
  
She'd been truly alone then.  
  
Her aunt had been next. She'd died from the one disease that scientists across the planets had not been able to cure. Cancer had eaten away at her mother's sister, and this time her mother had wept when her aunt had taken her final breath. For one, brief second, her mother had been a vulnerable, young woman and that day, Jack had not only cried for the aunt she had barely known, but for the mother she had never had.  
  
From then on she'd found herself in the hospital numerous times, the subject of many a beating, and by the age of eleven the doctors had learnt not to question her version of events.  
  
But by the age of thirteen she had grown tired of broken bones and black eyes and with the money left to her by her father, she had fled and found herself on the Hunter Grazner.  
  
Two years later she'd found herself in yet another hospital, staring down at the weathered corpse of the man she had considered a father.   
  
It had been little over a year since Imam had died, but the pain was still fresh and his absence in her life was still felt as strongly as ever. The night Imam had died was the night Jack had confessed her dislike of hospitals to Riddick. From then on, they'd never been near one. Until now.  
  
"Riddick, _please_," she begged with a whimper, clutching at his shirt and peering up at him with pain-glazed eyes.  
  
"I'm sorry, kid," Riddick replied sincerely, stopping to grab her coat on the way out.  
  
With a tortured mewl of pain, Jack gave in and collapsed against his chest.  
  
---  
  
Jack woke up to clean, pressed sheets and the smell of disinfectant. Panic bloomed in her chest. Casting wild eyes around the bland, white hospital room and finding Riddick no where in sight, she scrambled hastily from the bed and padded barefoot to the chair where her clothes sat in a neat pile.  
  
She was just slipping on her shirt when she heard the door open. Riddick stepped through, with one large hand curled around a styrofoam cup and the other wrapped around the door handle.  
  
"Get your ass back in that bed, kid," he rumbled, turning to close the door behind him.   
  
Jack scowled and pulled her shirt over her torso. She sat down on the chair behind her so she could put on her sneakers, but Riddick's firm voice froze her movements.  
  
"_Now_."  
  
"I can't stay here, Riddick. You know I can't." She lifted her head, pleading with him silently to not make her stay here. She would be fine in a couple of days, she was sure, but she knew if she stayed here, something bad would happen. Bad things always happened in hospitals. This time bad things would happen to her.  
  
I want to go home.  
  
"I want to go home."  
  
"Jack, you're sick. You need to stay here 'til the doctors can tell us what's wrong," Riddick said, sounding agitated but oddly concerned. It was endearing and Jack almost gave in right there.  
  
"I'm not fuckin' sick," she argued, ignoring Riddick's pointed glare (he didn't like it when she cussed) and bending down to tie her laces. "I've got period pains, and unless that's suddenly a huge cause for concern, I'm not gonna be dyin' any time soon." Fully clothed, she rose from the chair and stood with her arms folded over her chest. "Now can we _please_ go home."  
  
He said nothing. Instead he took a steady gulp from the cup in his hand and stepped over to the arm chair that sat in the far corner of the hospital room. He settled himself down, picked up a magazine from the small table beside him and proceeded to leaf through it absently.  
  
"Get in bed, kid," he repeated, eyes cast down, scanning the pages with feigned interest.  
  
"Fuck you, Riddick," she countered angrily, suddenly tired of his patronising tone. She'd already accepted that he would never stop talking to her like a six-year-old, but right now she wasn't in the mood. She wanted out of here and damned if he was going to stop her.  
  
She headed for the door and made it half way before something tightened around her belly. At first she thought it was Riddick's arm but when liquid fire spread through her insides, bringing her to her knees, there was no arm holding her up. Instead it was just her and the cool surface of the floor beneath her palms and then the side of her face.  
  
Black dots were blotting out the harsh, blinding light of the hospital room and then, suddenly, her vision blurred into complete darkness as she was lifted from the hard floor. Her head spun wildly and sickness rose up into her throat. She blinked rapidly, slightly panicked because of the blackness that had suddenly stolen her vision.   
  
She hadn't passed out. She wished she had because the pain was now an intense throbbing that pounded through her stomach like a fiery fist. It snagged at her stomach muscles and pulled her body into a tight ball.   
  
She felt the weight of large arms around her, and then the cool softness of a pillow beneath her cheek. A hand came to rest against her heated forehead, sweeping up to brush her hair from her face. She heard soft murmurings but couldn't hear anything past the dull roaring in her ears and the sound of her own heavy breathing. She held her breath and caught the low hum of Riddick's voice.  
  
"--ust hold in their kid. Doctor's on his w--"  
  
Something's wrong, she wanted to say. Instead the only thing that escaped her was a sharp gasp. Her mind was a whirlwind of pain and darkness, but one thought ran rampant among the chaos.  
  
Bad things are happening. Just like I said it would. Bad things are--  
  
Suddenly the blackness melted from her vision and all she saw was white, blinding light. It burnt her eyes, it burnt like the fire in her belly, igniting her senses and sparking at her nerves until she was nothing more than a whimpering ball, trying to claw her way out of her own body. It cut short her breath and with another agonising gasp, there was blackness again. For one split second her body went cold, and then... nothing.


	2. Part II

**Title:** Helpless   
**Author:** Savage Midnight   
**Email:**   
**Rating:** PG-13   
**Disclaimer:** Any characters/concepts familiar to the Pitch Black universe belong to David Twohy and USA Films.   
**Summary:** When Jack falls sick, Riddick is rendered helpless.   
**Authors notes:** Firstly, thanks to everyone who has reviewed/read this fic (I was surprised by the sheer amount of people who did) and thanks for being patient. It's been months since I've updated this fic due to college work and exams, but I've finally managed to squeeze this chapter out.   
  
Secondly, a huge thanks to Artemis Aristoboule for the medical beta. She's helped me immensely with this fic and without her it wouldn't have made the slightest bit of sense. Gracias to you, babe.  
  
On one last note, I must warn you all that the events depicted in this fic are in no way related to The Chronicles of Riddick or Kyra. When this was first written, the sequel had yet to be released, and thus it will continue to play out in the Pitch Black universe. Thank you. Now on with the next part.  
  
---  
  
**Part Two **

"--we've run several tests and they've all come up inconclusive. The scans show nothing abnormal; her reproductive system is functioning normally and there are no signs of abdominal damage. All I can suggest is a course of antibiotics. I'll prescribe you some painkillers for the pain, but apart from that there's not a lot we can do."

Blinking rapidly, Jack tried to clear the waving blackness from her vision. She shrugged off the last vestiges of sleep just in time to see the dark look that graced Riddick's stony face.

"The kid's passin' out and puking her guts up all over the place and there's nothing you can do?" he growled fiercely, "How about you do your fuckin' job and find out what's wrong with her."

"Mr. Riddick," the Doctor added hastily, "we've done everything we c--"

"Like fuck you have. You call yourself a doctor, you incompetent prick. Any fuckin' moron could see there's somethin' wrong."

Jack watched the flustered Doctor as he adjusted his glasses on his nose and nervously looked up at Riddick. "Ah, it's--it's not uncommon for a girl Jack's age to experience increasingly painful periods. There have been occasions where girls have been bed-ridden for several days at a time. I assure you, Mr. Riddick, Jack will be fine in a couple of days. The painkillers should help to ease the cramps--"

"--cramps don't knock a girl unconscious, Doc," Riddick countered tightly. "And if you won't help her then I'll find someone that will."

He strode over to her bed and noticing that she was awake, he attempted to smile at he reassuringly. Jack didn't buy it but she didn't argue when Riddick suddenly scooped her up in his arms despite the protests of the Doctor standing nearby, and carried her out into the white, pristine corridors of the hospital.

"Where we going, Riddick? she questioned groggily, resting her spinning head against his shoulder.

"Home," he replied gruffly and Jack smiled in gratitude.

Maybe bad things are happening, she thought before she allowed herself to succumb to sleep. But at least Riddick's here to take care of me.

---

Riddick, of course, remained true to his words. Four days later, after getting in touch with every contact he knew, one Doctor Emma Roberts arrived at their door.

She was a beautiful woman, dressed in an un-Doctor like red suit, her long, black hair pulled back into a soft bun. She had a beautiful face - almost handsome - and perfect, white teeth. When the Doctor settled herself down on Jack's bed, the teenager briefly wondered if this was one of Riddick's infamous lovers.

She restrained the need to ask, though, and instead shot a wary look towards Riddick, who was stood in the centre of her room, arms folded over his chest and a reassuring smile curving his lips.

Swallowing heavily, Jack re-directed her gaze towards the woman on her bed.

"What's going on?" she asked groggily, her voice thick and hoarse from too much pain and not enough sleep. She moved a hand to wipe away the sweat beading on her forehead, but Riddick was there first, washcloth cradled in his hand. He settled it against her forehead and she sighed, eyes sliding closed at the cooling sensation.

"My name's Doctor Roberts," the beautiful woman informed her, smiling at her softly. "I'm here to help you, Jack."

Again Jack turned to Riddick for confirmation. He simply nodded, arms folded over his chest again. Licking her dry lips, Jack said, "You know what's wrong with me?"

Doctor Roberts shook her head. "Not yet, but I have a good idea. Riddick filled me in on your symptoms, but I still need to know a few things from you. Then we can start the tests."

"Tests?" Jack echoed nervously, eyes widening slightly at the Doctor's words. She didn't like the thought of tests. Tests meant bad things were happening. Her father had had tests and he'd died, as had Imam.

Oh God, Imam, where are you? she begged silently, childishly hoping he could hear her. But some part of Jack knew that he couldn't and the thought made her nausea, because she missed him so very, very much.

The Doctor smiled again and moved forward to place the back of her hand against Jack's cheek. Jack found the gesture strangely comforting, but it didn't help to quell the panic welling in her chest.

"Yes, but don't worry, Jack, they're painless. Just a few blood tests, some X-Rays and an MRI scan. If my theory is right, it shouldn't take long and this whole thing will be over in a few days."

"Riddick--" she addressed him nervously, panicked eyes darting to his own cool ones.

He didn't move, simply said, in a low, gruff voice, "It's okay, kid. Let her help."

She studied him for a long moment, fought the terror sliding through her bones because this was Riddick and she trusted him. He always looked out for her, always made sure she was okay and if he trusted the doctor, then so did Jack.

She turned her face back to the doctor and nodded. "Okay," she croaked, and moved a hand to wipe at her tired eyes. "But the tests, they--they're not painful, right? And everything's gonna be fine?"

Doctor Roberts face split into a gentle, reassuring smile. "No, Jack," she answered, shaking her head. "They won't hurt. I've dealt with cases much like yours a hundred times over, and nine times out of ten, it turns out to be nothing. Sometimes it's what we call Dysmenorrhea, which occurs a lot in young women. They suffer from severe period pains that can progress into a full-scale ovary infection. It's easily cured, though, so there's nothing to worry about. Or it could be another illness known as Gartner's cyst, which is somewhat similar but often goes unnoticed. Most tests don't pick up on it, and if you're not looking for it specifically, it's likely that it won't be identified. But that's why I'm here and hopefully these tests will prove my suspicions and we'll be able to get this thing sorted."

Jack swallowed, ignoring her parched throat for the time being. "O-okay," she agreed, pushing aside her nervous apprehension. If this doctor knew what was wrong with her, if she knew how to help, than Jack was definitely willing to give her a chance. She was tired of being holed up in her bed, tired of feeling weak and weary all the time. She wondered if maybe Riddick was growing tired of her current predicament, too. It wasn't in his nature to care for people (though he'd done a good job with her up to now) and playing nurse had never really been his strong suit. That irrational part of her brain started to flare up again and she found herself constantly wondering if, after this was all over, Riddick would finally realise that she was nothing but a burden, one he could not afford. Would he leave her? Trust her to the care of somebody else while he disappeared off to explore the planets?

Would he finally realise that choosing to look after a sixteen-year-old orphan had been the biggest mistake of his life?

God, she hoped not. She hoped that when this was all over, when she was back to her old self again, Riddick would not think any differently of her, would not think her weak, and would forgive her for this recent lapse.

The thought never occurred to Jack, as she was transported to Doctor Roberts' private surgery, that there might be a chance things could go wrong. It never occurred to her that something bad might really happen and there would be no reverting back to her old self. Jack never considered that thought as they ran the test after test after test.

But secretly, Riddick did.

---

They had to wait twenty-four hours for the test results to come through. Jack had been forced back to her room, where a stoic, silent Riddick demanded that she stay in bed and rest.

Jack was tired of resting. She felt drowsy and achy; her muscles were heavy with fatigue and her head throbbed from lack of sleep. It wasn't that she didn't want to sleep, it was that she couldn't. Though the cramps were not constant now, they still flared regularly, awaking her from her slumber whenever she managed to salvage a few moments of peace.

It was now that the lack of sleep was really getting to her. She felt overly-emotional, like she would burst out crying at any moment, and the lack of control over her body was grating on her. She felt helpless and weak, and the familiar feeling of powerlessness brought with it aching memories from a past she wanted to forget.

Jack could feel the faint whisper of bruises long since faded on her flesh. Her arms felt heavy and sore (from years of fending off her mother's fists), her stomach muscles burned with agony (from years of baring the brunt of her mother's kicks) and her temples throbbed intensely (from years of suffering blows to her head). Her body screamed with old memories that were just too much.

Despite her heated flesh, the tears welling in her eyes scorched her cheeks as they spilled over. She didn't brush them away this time, but left them to trail down her face as a reminder of how weak she truly was.

She'd failed Riddick. She'd not only put herself in danger, but him, too. He'd spent years teaching her how to guard herself, how to side-step her weaknesses by fine-tuning her strengths. He'd taught her how to use her body so it wouldn't fail her, because if you're body failed you, he'd said, you had nothing. In a physical confrontation, if you gave in to your weaknesses, your enemy would take full advantage of the fact. You'd be dead within a second, because a second was all it took.

Riddick had driven those lessons and those skills into her, and even Jack, at such a young age, had known it was only because he cared. Maybe he wasn't an affectionate companion or an idealistic father-figure, but he loved her in his own way.

But now his lessons had failed her, or rather, she'd failed him. She knew that on occasion their home was prone to attacks, sometimes from stray mercenaries who had been lucky enough to stumble upon Richard B. Riddick, sometimes from bounty hunters that worked alone or were hired specifically. It wasn't often, and Riddick usually dealt with them easily, but he'd taught her lessons on weakness and strength for the sole purpose of protecting herself against these attackers, should Riddick find himself unable to.

__

They'll use you to get to me, Jack. And I won't give 'em the chance. Neither will you.

What would have happened if they had attacked yesterday? Or the day before? Or heaven forbid, what if they attacked today? She couldn't fend for herself. She didn't even have the energy to crawl out of bed and hide. Anyone could walk in her right now and kill her or abduct her if the opportunity presented itself, and then she truly would be a liability to Riddick. Jack knew he would go to hell and high waters to protect her, even at the cost of his own life, and she couldn't let that happen. She wouldn't.

Riddick's sudden presence in her room reinforced her fierce testament and as he set a glass of orange juice and two sleeping tablets on her bedside table, she wiped the drying tears from her face.

The sight of the orange juice brought fresh waves of tears to her eyes, though. It was her favourite drink, but fruit, especially oranges, were rare around these parts. Most of the orchards had been ruined by decades of chemical pollution from the local factories, and because of that only certain kinds of fruit were grown out here. Citrus fruits, such as oranges, lemons and melons, had to be imported, and only those who lived on a comfortable income could afford such luxuries.

Riddick and Jack lived quite comfortably, thanks to both Riddick, who, before he was sent to Slam, had invested the healthy income he'd gleaned from his years as a bounty hunter, and Imam, who had left to Riddick his home and his fortunes. Jack was also due a healthy sum as soon as she reached the age of adulthood, which, on this planet, was eighteen, but she'd vowed months ago, shortly after Imam's death, that she would not touch the money, but leave it to grow in interest. And then she planned to donate it in hopes that Imam's money would one day find the cure for the disease that had poisoned the holy man's blood and taken him from herself and Riddick. It was a distant goal, but Jack was determined.

"How're you feelin', kid?" Riddick asked, his gravely voice strangely soothing to her throbbing head.

"Good," she lied, ignoring his pointed look and moving to take the glass of orange juice he offered out to her. She drew the glass up to her dry lips and took a healthy swig, opening her other hand out for the sleeping pills and curling her fingers around them. She almost groaned in satisfaction as the refreshing juice slid down her parched throat, but she quelled the urge and pulled the glass from her lips at Riddick's insistence.

"Go easy, Jack. You'll make yourself sick."

Riddick took the glass from her and set it back down on her bedside table. She uncurled her fingers to reveal the two small sleeping pills resting in her palm. She stared at them with a mixture of disgust and wariness.

"They'll help you sleep," Riddick explained, as if she didn't already know that herself.

"Pills make me sick, Riddick," she said, moving to drop the pills onto the table beside her. She twisted back around just as Riddick was settling himself down on her bed. She looked over at him, and her dazed state she wasn't sure if it was quiet concern written over his features, or disappointment.

I'm making a fuss again, she thought, and found herself picking the pills back up, ready to swallow them down just to erase the dark look shadowing Riddick's face. She didn't want to disappoint him anymore, though she was finding it increasingly difficult to accommodate Riddick while her mind was thick from lack of sleep and her muscles were sore from too much bed rest.

She was just about to swallow the foul-looking pills when Riddick's large hand encircled her wrist, halting her hand before the medication reached her lips.

"Leave it," he said gruffly. "We'll try somethin' else. Don't want you getting sick again."

Of course not.

"I'm okay," she croaked. "I'll sleep once I'm better." Her face cracked into a small smile.

"What about that lavender crap?" he said, ignoring her comment.

Jack's face screwed up with confusion. "What?" she said, her hand falling back to the bedcovers. She stared across at Riddick, her brow furrowed.

"Shit's supposed to relax you."

Oh. Now she understood.

"We have lavender bath oils," she said. "But I'm too tired for a bath, Riddick. I just wanna stay here."

"It'll help."

"Riddick--"

"Shut it, kid."

He was already rising from the bed, moving towards her bathroom to run a bath. Jack sagged tiredly against her pillow and let her eyes slide closed. "You're mean," she grumbled playfully, lips curving up in a sleepy, amused smile.

"So you're always telling me," his gravely voice sounded from the bathroom.

She fell quiet and settled back into her pillows. She listened to the thumping of his boots on the linoleum floor, the sound of the taps running on full power and the vibrations of the heater. She followed the swirly, inky blackness behind her eyelids and they seemed to grow heavier and heavier, until, before she knew it, she was cloaked in a fuzzy blanket of darkness and sleep.

---

"On a guess I'd say parental abuse, given her background," Emma Roberts said that evening, seated in Jack and Riddick's dining room, opposite the stoic man sitting at the table with her. She sipped at her coffee absently, concerned eyes trained on Riddick, who was staring fixedly at the file in front of him. Riddick had asked for a full background check on Jack -- her medical history, her home life, grades, everything -- and now the results lay in plain view for him to see. Emma hoped that Jack would forgive them both for this breech of privacy.

The file contained Jack's -- or Audrey Burnstone, as her real name was -- complete medical history up until her disappearance, among other things. It included detailed information on her every injury and the written suspicions of the various doctors who had treated her. Some had considered contacting Child Services, but none, it seemed, had gone through with it. Emma understood why -- it was unlikely that anything would have been done, and in the end Jack would have suffered more by the hand of whomever was beating her for getting the authorities involved.

Emma's guess was her mother. Jack's father had died when she was only eight, and after the death of her aunt, the records showed a distinct increase in her injuries - both in severity and consistency. She couldn't blame Jack for fleeing -- in her situation, Emma would have done exactly the same thing.

"She never talked about her parents," was Riddick's only response. He was still staring at the file with a mixture of compulsive interest and anxiety, and Emma wondered if he was debating whether he was ready to read what was inside. Emma figured it was best that she give him her opinion on the matter, before he headed for the cold, hard facts.

"Her father, David Burnstone, died when she was eight. Her aunt died a few months later, and I'm guessing, from the records, that the beatings started sometime after that. Constant abuse over a long period of time would have caused severe internal damage and that usually results in a build up of scar tissue of the years. Beatings to the stomach sometimes leads to a tissue build up on the vestigial mesonephric duct, which is a small duct that lays parallel to the uterine tube. It's what they call Gartner's cyst and nine times out of ten it goes undetected. Most tests don't pick it up and unfortunately, if the cyst is left untreated, it can grow into ovarian cancer. It's only usually identified through a pelvic MRI and most doctors--"

"Ovarian cancer?" Riddick's head had snapped up at that and now he was gazing across at her with cold, mercury eyes. "Jack has cancer?" he questioned her, worry and, dare she say it, fear, creeping into his voice. Riddick was afraid? That was a first.

"Not necessarily, Riddick. I'm just saying--"

"But there's a possibility?"

Emma looked across at him solemnly. The bare horror in his eyes made her swallow, but she nodded. "Yes," she answered truthfully. "I'm not certain how severe the problem is. I'm still waiting for the test results to come through. But for all we know the problem could be minor. We may have caught it in time or it may be something completely different. We don't know. All we can do is wait." She paused and then added, "You're a patient man, Riddick. Sixteen hours is nothing to you."

His shined eyes flickered up and connected with hers. She grazed the hard lines of his face with her gaze and the naked worry she found there pulled her lips into a small, sad smile.

"You really care about her, don't you," she said softly, lifting her coffee cup to her lips. She glanced at him over the rim.

He didn't answer, just stared at her, his gaze unwavering and intense. That was answer enough.

He broke the stare a second later and sighed heavily. "I'm not made for this shit," he said gruffly, running a palm over his scalp. He rose from the table and began to pace the length of the dining room, pinching the bridge of his nose as he went.

"I don't think anyone is made for this shit, Riddick," she said, tracking his movements with her eyes. "We just make it up as we go along."

"I don't do sick people, " he elaborated. He moved into the living area and settled himself down in one of the large arm chairs. Emma followed and took a seat on the couch opposite, watching Riddick with concerned eyes. She'd never seen him look so helpless before, and the usual alertness she often found in his eyes was now smothered by a quiet, steady panic that Riddick was struggling to control.

"Imam usually dealt with this kind of stuff. I just taught the kid how to fight and take care of herself." He paused and looked across at her. "I'm a murderer," he said plainly. "Not a parent. I can't be what she needs me to be."

Riddick wasn't used to people being this dependent on him. Emma knew that from his days as a bounty hunter. Despite what people thought, Riddick had had people he cared about before and after he'd been sent to Slam, including herself, but he'd always been a lone soul. He'd lived his life alone, done his job alone, and hadn't appreciated being tied to any one person for any amount of time.

And now here he was. Tied to a sixteen-year-old child who -- despite how indifferent he pretended to be -- he cared about and maybe even loved. As a daughter. As a friend. And as the only girl who served as unwavering link between himself and humanity.

Riddick wasn't used to people needing him for more than just favours. He was foreign to the idea of emotional comfort and reassurance, the need to know you were protected in more than a physical sense. Jack had lost that security years ago, had probably lacked any real form of affection and love for the better part of eight years, and had lost two father figures in that time, too. It was no surprise that she'd come to depend on Riddick, to trust him. She'd invested all her faith in him because he was the only one left who really cared, and maybe he didn't show it, but Emma figured that Jack knew. She had to. The way the two acted towards each other spoke volumes of the affection that lay between them.

Jack's dependency had probably been a lot easier for Riddick to handle when Imam had been around. The holy man would have taken care of the more domestic matters, while Riddick stuck to what he was good at and taught Jack basic combat and survival skills. No emotional problems, no dealing with the usual teenaged dilemmas. Riddick probably hadn't stepped out of his role as fearless fighter, protector and murderer in all the years he'd spent with Jack and Imam, but now with Imam gone, Jack needed much more than lessons on how to disarm and kill your opponent. It wasn't exactly what dreams were made of.

But Riddick, it seemed, wasn't ready to take on the role of carer. Oh, sure, he undoubtedly cared about the girl, had looked after her well enough since Imam's death, but it was in moments like this, when it was made clear that Riddick didn't know how to handle the emotional needs of others, that it was obvious something would have to change. He wasn't used to being afraid for someone else, wasn't used to fearing something he couldn't see, and that was what was making him unsettled, edgy.

Riddick didn't know what to do, and he hated it. He didn't know _how_ to be useless, and that was exactly what he was. Richard B. Riddick was helpless.

"You're going to leave, aren't you," Emma said. It wasn't even a question. She could see the possibility swimming in his mercury eyes.

His gaze was steady when he looked at her, a little ashamed, but unflinching. "Might be for--

---

"--the best," Riddick's voice sounded from around the corner, and Jack heard every word. The last vestiges of sleep was swept away as Emma's words echoed, ringing loud and clear in her pounding head.

__

You're going to leave, aren't you...

She stared at her bare feet absently, anger and disappointment bringing tears to her eyes.

How could you, she thought, swallowing past the sudden lump in her throat. Her chest ached and something inside of her was breaking. I trusted you. I thought you cared. God, I thought you cared!

She moved backwards on unsteady feet, bright eyes taking in everything that made this her home. The warm, earthy colours of the walls, curtains and carpets, the low lighting -- just for Riddick -- and the pictures she could just make out from where she was standing. A few of Riddick, taken without consent, some of her and Imam wearing wide, proud smiles, and some of her alone. But there weren't any of her and Riddick together, or the three of them. Not one where he'd actively chosen to be a part of their lives so she could have something to keep, a memory all her own to frame and cherish.

The obvious absence of such memories said it all, and Jack found herself stumbling backwards as the pictures blurred in front of her eyes. A sob caught in the back of her throat and terror welled in her chest, because she didn't want to hear anymore, didn't want the pain to spread until she was numb and broken again. It wasn't fair, none of this was fair, and for the first time since she'd met him, Jack found herself hating Riddick.

That hurt, too, the thought that she hated him. There was no guilt, though, just an unquestionable knowledge that things had changed. Things were different now, and so was she.

She turned and fled down the winding hallway back to her room, swallowing her sobs so he wouldn't hear. Not that she cared anymore. Let him think she was weak. What difference did it make? He was leaving her, anyway, running. He was the weak one, not her.

It took her less than five minutes to pack her bag and slip into her clothes. Her shoulder length hair was pulled back and tied with a black band, and then she was slipping into her jacket and out of her room, eyes and ears alert for the sound of approaching feet. Satisfied the coast was clear, Jack swiped the tears from her eyes and allowed her anger to take over and fill the hollowness in her chest. Then, with her resolve firmly in place, she slid out into the dull buzz of the night.

---

Jack didn't know where she was going, but the lack of destination had never really stopped her before. The only thought running through her head was that she had to leave before Riddick did. Then she'd prove to him how independent she was, how strong. She could look after herself perfectly fine.

Heading for the city centre, she pulled the hood of her jacket up over her head to cover her hair and face, and relaxed her body into a boyish slouch. No way would Riddick recognise her now (if he even bothered to come looking for her) and people were less likely to mess with her if they thought she was a boy.

It was all too easy to slip back into the persona she'd gradually let go of over the years. She supposed it would always be a part of her, in the end, because it was what made her who she was. A little hot-headed, but brave, too. She wasn't as impressionable as she'd once been, but she still had that fierce need for someone to understand her and take care of her. That's what had drawn her to Riddick in the first place. No one had understood him back then, but she'd wanted to, because she thought that maybe if she did, he would respect her that much more. He would take care of her, because she'd take care of him.

And now, after she'd spent years rebuilding her trust in people and weaving herself into Riddick's life, he'd simply ripped her and her trust away. In a blink of an eye he'd managed to destroy any faith she had in him, and some part of her would never forgive him for that. She would never forgive him for making her hate him.

But no matter how she felt, no matter how much she wanted to turn around and run back home, to beg Riddick to take his words back and erase this hatred in her, she knew she had to leave. She couldn't just sit and wait for him to take off first, because then he'd be taking so much more than her trust. He'd be taking her pride and her dignity, too. He'd be taking everything that made her Jack.

She wouldn't let that happen. She was tired of people taking from her, and just when she'd started to think Riddick was different, he'd proved her wrong. Bastard.

She wiped at her eyes angrily, silently trying to convince herself that the tears were a result of the cramps gripping her insides and not her heart breaking. It was one thing to have your body betray you, but she refused to add her heart to the mix. She didn't need Riddick, he wasn't even worth her tears, and she'd be damned if she let him get to her. The selfish, cold-hearted, cowardly bastard.

It wasn't long before Jack found herself in the city centre, surrounded by the late night hustle and bustle. Here on this planet, the night life was found on the streets, crowds spilling out into the roads as music blared from unseen speakers. Clubs and bars were a thing of the past, and were usually only found on the outskirts of the city.

Weaving her way through the throngs of people, Jack headed for the back alleys, away from the noise and lights. She took a number of complicated turns, losing herself in the intricate maze of side streets, and then, finally satisfied that Riddick would not be able to find her, she slipped into one of the derelict warehouses lining the street.

It was dark inside, and relatively quiet. She could still hear the throbbing beat of the music coming from the city centre, but it was bearable. She settled herself down on the hard, dusty floor and rested her back against the side of the warehouse, letting her head fall on to her raised knees.

She wanted to cry. She wanted to scream. She wanted to hit something, or kill something, but instead she just sniffled and rubbed at her tired eyes with heel of her hand. Losing control wouldn't help. It wouldn't change anything. Riddick would still be a bastard and she'd still be homeless and afraid, and no amount of weeping or screaming or violence would erase the fact that things were different now. She was a runaway again, and she wondered if anything had really changed in three years. It didn't feel like it.

Fighting back the sudden urge to vomit, Jack discarded her backpack and slid sideways slowly, until she was laying on the cold floor, her back against the wall of the warehouse and her head pillowed on her arm. She curled her knees up to her chest and stared absently ahead, her gaze focussed on some distant point that not even she could see. She took a deep, shaky breath and let it out slowly, feeling the week-long fatigue crawling back over her again. Her eyes felt cold and clammy, her muscles achy and stiff, and her temples throbbed with suppressed tears and tightly-leashed anger. Sleep tickled at the edge of her consciousness, pulling at her, and this time she allowed it to take over without a fight.

---

Jack was awake and alert the moment she sensed someone nearby, years of training pulling her from her slumber instantly.

It wasn't fast enough, though, because that someone had already managed to grab her by the scruff of her neck and was pulling her up from the concrete floor. She flayed wildly, lessons forgotten, panic taking over. She moved to slam her elbow into the stranger's stomach, but a strong hand caught her arm before she could complete the move and twisted it up her back.

She let out a yelp of pain.

"Mind telling me what the fuck you're playing at?" a low, tight voice rumbled near her ear and she immediately recognised it as Riddick's. She froze, her struggles dying, but the grip on her arm never loosened.

"Get the fuck off me, Riddick," she hissed fiercely when she finally managed to gain control of her voice box. The venom in her tone surprised even herself, and she sensed her earlier resentment and hatred boiling beneath the surface, not as controlled as she'd first thought.

"Not until you tell me what's going on," he said. "So I suggest you start talking."

"Why? It's not like you'll listen." She tried to pull herself from his grasp but found herself slammed against the wall instead. The wind was knocked out of her and for a brief moment panic swallowed her when she found herself unable to take a breath. It didn't take long to gain her momentum again and she glared up at Riddick with sharp eyes. He was looming over her, strong arms braced each side of her, irritation written clean across his features.

I irritate him, she thought. I'm just an annoyance. I can't even make him angry.

The thought only seemed to fuel her bitterness and her defiance hardened into full blown rebellion. Hatred seeped into her eyes.

"It's four in the mornin', kid," Riddick said. "I've been looking for you for nearly three hours, so trust me, I'm not in the best of moods."

Jack could tell. She could hear the tightly leashed fury in his voice, see the ice in his eyes. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe he was angry.

"Now you can either start by telling me what the fuck you're doing here and why I've spent most of the night searching for your sorry ass, or you can keep playing the spoiled brat and piss me off a little bit more. I warn you, though, Jack; it won't be pretty if you do. My patience isn't what it used to be."

If Jack hadn't been so angry herself, maybe she would have listened to Riddick's warning. But she didn't. Instead she took advantage of her partial freedom and dove beneath Riddick's arm, feet carrying her to the door before he had chance to drag her back. She raced out into the pre-dawn light and down the alley, breath escaping her in ragged gasps as she ran, hair falling loose and fluttering behind her.

If Jack hadn't looked back, she would have made it. But she did. She turned her head to peer over her shoulder, saw Riddick standing, watching her, arms folded across his chest, visibly pissed, even from here. He didn't seem to be pursuing her, though, and for that Jack was thankful. She wasn't sure she was ready to face him. She wasn't sure she ever would be.

She turned to face forward again, but in that second she lost her footing and found herself flying towards the floor. Her arms shot out instinctively to stop her fall, but it wasn't enough and the next thing she knew the ground was rushing up to meet her, scraping the skin from her hands and knees.

She cried out, a bitter, defeated cry that echoed in the dark alley. She lay on the ground, panting, sobs threatening to erupt from her chest as pain lanced it's way up her legs and arms. The pain in her stomach was silent, for once.

And then the sobs burst free and the tears spilled over her cheeks. She was tired, so tired. She'd been pulled this way and that and now she felt as if she was falling apart, tearing down the middle. She just didn't know what to think or do. Riddick didn't care about her, was ready to leave her behind, yet here he was having spent the night seeking her out. Did that mean he did care? Or just that he felt obligated to her? Was this his last act of kindness before he fled, leaving her to live alone on this God forsaken planet?

It wasn't fair. None of this was fair. She just wanted to die. She found herself wishing the pain in her stomach would spiral up and steal her breath away until there was nothing but silence. It was too loud in her head these days.

She managed to pull herself up-right before Riddick's booted feet came into view. Without thought she found herself crawling backwards, away from him, because he was the reason why her head was hurting right now, why her heart ached. She kept her eyes cast to the floor as she slumped into the crevice between the wall and a dumpster, because she didn't want to look at him. She hated him.

"Go away," she whispered when her sobs finally quietened. Her tears wouldn't stop, unfortunately. "Go away," she said again when he showed no sign of moving. He moved this time, but he didn't leave. Instead he stepped forward and crouched down before her. Jack fought the urge to look up at him and kept her bright eyes lowered.

"How much did you hear, Jack?" he asked, his voice the same hypnotic rumble she remembered. She tried to ignore it, because it reminded her so much of the Riddick he'd once been -- or the Riddick she'd thought he was, anyway.

"Enough," she answered plainly.

She heard Riddick sigh, a deep, weary sigh that puzzled Jack. He sounded... upset? Worried? No, that wasn't right. Riddick didn't get upset or worried or any of those things. He was Riddick.

"Look, Jack, I know you're scared, but it might not come to that. Doctor Roberts said it's only a possibility, not--"

Jack's head lifted. She stared across at him with questioning eyes, her earlier anger forgotten. "Riddick, what--"

He was solemn when he looked at her, and there was naked pain in his eyes. Jack had never seen Riddick look that anguished before and the sight was so unexpected that she almost didn't hear what he said next.

Almost.

"Not everyone dies of cancer, kid," Riddick said, and the world dropped out from under her.


	3. Part III

****

Title: Helpless  
**Author:** Savage Midnight  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Disclaimer:** Pitch Black and all related elements belong to David Twohy and USA Films. No copyright infringement is intended. Any original characters or concepts that belong to the author are stated accordingly.  
**Summary:** When Jack falls sick, Riddick is rendered helpless.  
**Authors notes: **Okay, I know it's been a _long _while since I've updated this fic, but like I promised I have not abandoned it. Part three is finally here. I want to thank everyone who has reviewed and read this fic so far (I'm immensely surprised how many of you out there actually like it) and I want to thank you for being patient with me. Hectic life and all that, ehe.

Huge thanks again to Artemis for the medical knowledge. I'm learning all sorts of wacky new things.

Again, another warning to new readers when I first started writing Helpless, the sequel to Pitch Black had not yet been realised. So therefore this fic is in no way related to The Chronicles of Riddick or the character Kyra.

**Part Three**

I take it back.

That was the first thought that fluttered into her head when Jack regained consciousness only seconds later.

Her wish didn't mean anything. She hadn't meant it. She didn't want to die, not really. Not like this. Not at sixteen.

She blinked her green eyes rapidly and wondered why, at a time like this, her tears had seized to fall when all she wanted to do was a cry a river and drown in it. Anything was better than the alternative.

Cancer. God. How ironic.

She looked up at Riddick, who still looked mildly distraught, though she could tell he was trying to feign indifference for her sake. Like maybe if he made it sound trivial, like something not even worth crying over, then maybe it would be so. Nothing to worry about. Nothing life-threatening. Nope.

He wasn't convincing her, though. For once Jack wished he would look at her the same way he looked at everyone else, with cold, hard eyes that bellied nothing. Now she could see everything in his mercury eyes, and she hated it because it made her scared. Afraid.

"You're lying," she whispered hoarsely, the accusation sliding from her lips without her consent. She wanted to tear her gaze from his, but she couldn't.

"Jack," he said her name, tone edged with anxious concern. "What did you hear?"

The question was urgent, drilled out with a quiet panic that Jack finally understood. He hadn't known _what_ part of the conversation she'd heard and now he'd finally realised he'd told her something she hadn't known. Riddick thought she'd run because she was scared, upset. She had, but it hadn't been the news of her impending death that had made her flee. It had been Riddick's words, his confession that he was going to leave her here, alone.

I'm going to die alone.

The thought struck her like a ton of bricks and suddenly the night fell silent. The world around her faded; she couldn't even see the silver of Riddick's eyes anymore. It was just her. Jack. Tiny and insignificant in a world that didn't care, didn't even know she existed. Even Riddick didn't matter anymore, because she didn't matter to him.

"You're lying," she said again, and her words broke through the peace that had wrapped itself around her. Riddick's shining eyes came back into focus and her words made a perfect kind of sense.

You're lying. You lied. You never cared. Why should you care? You're going to leave me alone to die. You won't even care. Not at all. You lied. You lied. You're lying. You

"I'm taking you home."

"I don't have a home," she said, before she even realised she was thinking it. It didn't seem to faze him, though. He swung her up into his arms and Jack had neither the strength nor the will to stop him. She didn't care anymore. Let him take her where he pleased, let him leave her alone on her bed to die without him. There wasn't a lot she could do to change his mind, anyway. Not that she wanted to.

He carried her back to Imam's house it was never theirs. Never Jack and Riddick's in silence. There were no words of reassurance from him, no apologies or promises or vows that he would look after her. Jack was waiting for him to say that he hadn't meant what he'd said earlier, that he wasn't going to leave her, after all, because he cared too much to just walk away.

She waited for over an hour while he walked for him to say the words, but they never came. And neither did the tears she wanted to cry. The pain in her stomach was quiet, too. Silently killing her, she supposed.

The sun was just peeking over the horizon when they reached the house. Riddick didn't leave her in her room, but instead carried her into the living area and settled her down on the couch. He probably wanted to keep an eye on her, make sure she didn't run again. Why he cared was beyond her, though.

"Hungry?" he asked, a trivial, careless question. That was okay. Let him spin his indifference. Let him undermine this, her, everything, the way he usually did. It didn't matter.

"No," she said, which wasn't a lie. She wasn't hungry at all. Her appetite seemed to have been silenced along with her cramps.

"I'll make you some soup," he said, probably trying to rile her up, get a response out of her. How he loved to piss her off, to tease her until she was forced to lash out like a bad tempered teenager, proving to him over and over that she was still a child at heart. Well, no more. She was done. She wasn't a child anymore, hadn't been for a long time, and Riddick could play his games all he wanted. She was tired of them.

He disappeared into the kitchen when it was clear she wasn't going to honour him with an answer.

Jack wanted to cry again when Riddick brought two hot bread rolls with her soup. He'd lathered them in butter, just the way she liked, and as unappealing as they looked right now, the sight of them brought tears to her eyes.

He's the only one who knows me, she thought. The only one left.

But soon there wouldn't be anyone who understood her anymore, and Jack wondered if Riddick had ever really understood her in the first place. It really didn't seem like it.

She filled her mouth with bread in an attempt to swallow back the sobs clogging her throat but she could do nothing to hold back the tears that spilled over her cheeks as she ate. She chewed at her food with disinterest, lips trembling, and every bite tasted of butter and salt and it was all so fitting. Just. Perfect.

Riddick watched her from the armchair, drowned out by the dim, dirty shadows of dawn, his eyes two pinpricks of light in the glum. She tried not to pay attention to his heavy gaze and concentrated on trying not to puke her guts up because her stomach refused to accept food of any kind. One bread roll later and she could take no more.

"I'm off to bed," she declared, ignoring the steaming bowl of chicken soup as she rose from the couch with less energy than she'd planned on. She shuffled slowly towards the doorway.

"It's gonna be okay, kid," Riddick's low voice sounded from behind her, and Jack froze, swallowing against the wretched sobs that wanted to escape at his words.

"Whatever, Riddick," she said bitterly and carried on walking, adding softly, "I really don't care."

"She's scared."

"That's understandable," Emma said, watching Riddick curiously from across the room. He hadn't moved since she'd arrived ten minutes ago, and this was the first time he'd spoken.

"Jack has lost several significant figures in her life, all to diseases that couldn't be cured. It's hard for her to comprehend the concept of survival in a case like this. Her own body is betraying her. That's enough to scare anyone."

He shifted, scrubbing a hand down his face. He looked more world-weary than Emma had ever seen him, and it worried her more than she liked.

"She thinks I've let her down," he said gruffly. He was silent for a long moment before he continued. "Three years watching her back, and I never saw this comin'."

Emma shook her head. "I don't think she thinks that, Riddick," she said.

She rose from the sofa and turned to face the wall behind her. It was decorated with several framed pictures, some of which reflected back the smiling faces of Jack and the man she assumed was Imam. There were very few of Riddick; the glimpses of him that someone had managed to catch on camera were fleeting. There were none of the three of them together, as a family, and none of he and Jack alone. There was only one, in the corner, of a younger Jack following Riddick's retreating form down the hall. Imam must have caught her by surprise, called her name so she instinctively turned towards the camera. Even suspended in time the expression on her face was undeniable; adoration, devotion, and a faint shadow of fear in her eyes. A fear that one day Riddick would walk away and never come back.

Emma knew where Jack's real fear lie, and it was not on her death bed.

The Doctor turned towards the slouched form of the convict she had come to trust over the years. Here was a man who demanded a certain amount of loyalty in exchange for his friendship, yet faltered in the face of such selfless devotion, offered to him without hesitation by a slip of girl whose trust in him was unwavering and indestructible. In all the time she had known him, Emma had never known Riddick to make bad decisions. The choices he had made had been his to make and there were reasons for them all, reasons she accepted without question. Things were never as black and white as people made them out to be Emma knew this better than anyone and decisions made were not always for the greater good, but for the greater happiness of those that truly mattered.

She just wasn't sure whether the decision Riddick had been contemplating in the early hours of this morning was for the greater good, or for the greater happiness.

But this was not for her to decide. The only thing Emma could offer was the slightest of comforts and the barest whispers of advice. She couldn't claim to know what Riddick was going through; she had never seen him this afraid, for himself or for anyone else. She couldn't claim to understand his feelings for the girl, either. Theirs was not a normal friendship. They were not a normal family. He wasn't the ideal father figure, and too much had been lost for Jack to truly feel like a daughter again.

She could only offer what she knew.

"Jack's scared, Riddick, but I don't think she's scared of dying," she told him, sharp green eyes watching him. "I think she's scared of dying alone. And it doesn't matter if everything turns out to be okay. It doesn't matter if you spend hours trying to convince her that things aren't as bad they seem, that'll always be with her."

Emma knelt down beside his chair, never tearing her gaze away from his shadowed face. She grasped his hand in hers and squeezed. "Whether she dies tomorrow or fifty years from now, her biggest fear will be whether you're with her or not. She loves you, more than I thought a girl her age was capable of. And now she thinks you're going to abandon her. She thinks she's failed you."

He turned his head sharply to look down at her, and Emma caught the first stirrings of anger in his eyes. "How can she"

Something must have shown on her face because the anger dissipated from his eyes suddenly, and his shoulders sagged. The shadows of his face darkened.

"I don't think that," he said in a low whisper. "I don't"

"She does," she cut in, and rose to her feet, grabbing her bag from beside the sofa before she headed for the door. She halted in the doorway and turned back towards him. In an hour things would be different, for all of them. Whether the test results proved dire or otherwise, changes would have to be made. The least Emma could do was make sure Riddick understand that.

"Two father figures gone. Three years spent trying to make her last one proud, and now this. For all your lessons, Riddick, none of you were prepared for this. If you think running is going to help her any, then you really don't know Jack at all."

She turned then, away from the soft glow of his eyes, and left him to consider her words in the mid-morning gloom.

Jack was silent on the drive over to Dr. Roberts' surgery. Riddick had never been one for small talk and today was no different. He didn't so much as look at her as he drove, eyes fixed on the road, hidden behind his trademark goggles. He was mindless to the fact that Jack was trembling like a leaf, having finally realised that maybe things wouldn't work out.

She'd spent too long worrying about what she would do without Riddick, that she hadn't taken the time to consider the thought that maybe she wouldn't live long enough to find out. Bad things were happening, and whether Riddick stayed or left, there was a chance a big chance that those things would not get better. _She_ would not get better.

Jack felt sick. Betrayed, by her own body, _again_. Three years of self-defence lessons could not change the fact that she had no defence against herself, and for all she'd learnt she was powerless. The traitor lived in her own skin.

By the time they reached the surgery her terror had reached its pinnacle and snapped. She was silent now, inside and out, and feeling slightly dazed. Everything felt subdued as she followed Riddick into Dr. Roberts' office, eyes not registering the clean white walls and deep black carpeting. Emma was a traditionalist on an aesthetic level; Jack remembered thinking that the first time she'd been here when the Doctor had first taken the tests.

There had been so many. Blood tests and X-rays and MRI and CT scans. She didn't even know what half of them were for. She remembered Emma trying to explain them at some point, but it was all lost on her. She'd paid no mind. All she'd been worried about was what Riddick would think, what he would do.

Will he leave me? she'd thought. Never: What's wrong with me? Or: Am I going to die?

She'd always thought that if Riddick was there, nothing could be as bad as it seemed. Except things were. Things were definitely as bad as they seemed. Riddick had mentioned cancer. People died of cancer. Was she going to die?

I don't want to die, she thought to herself. I don't want to die, and I don't want Riddick to leave, but nobody cares what I want.

Dr. Roberts was talking to her, she realised. Her head was moving up and down, green eyes flickering to the file in her hand, then to her face, and back again. Jack watched the light slanting across her strong features and playing in her jet-black hair, and then something clicked in her head and sound poured into the room.

"gone against all my original diagnostics. Imaging shows that you have a lump just here" Emma pointed out the area on an X-ray sheet she was holding up, pen resting against a spot near her lower abdomen. Jack's eyes barely registered what she was seeing; she didn't know where the lump was supposed to be and she didn't care. "which doesn't appear to be cancerous. Far from it." She looked up from the X-ray and smiled a wide smile that Jack assumed was meant to be reassuring. It did nothing to calm her nerves.

"You have, however," Emma said, picking up another sheet and scanning it, "got a dermoid cyst resting near your ovaries. That would explain why you're suffering from abdominal pains, and why the hospital tests you had didn't pick up on it. Basic blood work and X-rays wouldn't have worked, and it's doubtful that the doctors would have thought to run an MRI or CT scan. For all we know this cyst could have gone unidentified for years."

"Is it serious?"

Riddick's voice, low and indifferent. Jack glanced over to find he looked as interested as he sounded. Emma was looking at him as if she read something in his face that Jack couldn't see. She felt as if she was intruding on something.

Finally, Emma spoke. "If it's left untreated, yes. Fortunately the cyst hasn't ruptured so it'll be a lot easier to operate on."

Jack blinked tiredly and rubbed at her eyes. She suddenly felt worn and fatigued. "Operate?" she echoed absently, voice a low husk. She didn't even look up at Emma's face. She wasn't ready to acknowledge the bright optimism she knew she would find there.

You're not going to die, she reminded herself. Why can't you be happy with that?

__

Because I'm still broken.

She listened half-heartedly as Doctor Roberts laid out the facts, ever practical despite her compassionate nature. Jack barely heard anything but the soft timbre of her voice humming in her ears, and only caught the occasional strand of conversation.

"open surgerypossibly laparoscopicallyrecovery period shouldn't be any longer than"

Can you fix me?

It was a hopeful thought, if a little naive, but it was the thought of a frightened sixteen-year-old girl who still held some slim belief that maybe things would turn out okay.

But the part of Jack that had been forced to grow up years before her time knew it wouldn't. There was no quick fix for this. Emma Roberts may be able to remove a malignant cyst from her body, but as skilled a Doctor as she might be, not even she could cut out the part of Jack that ached so bad. Partly because, no matter how physical and _tangible _her heartbreak felt, it was neither.

It was an unavoidable pain, one which Jack had once thought she would die with. But it was now that she was beginning to realise, to her despair, that it was one she was going to have to live with instead.

There was a time when Doctor Emma Roberts used to do everything by the book. She practiced medicine the way she had been taught and never ventured into immoral ground no matter the times her conscience demanded otherwise.

But Emma's life had not remained so clear cut. Personal problems had led to a slow but inevitable deterioration of her former morals and values, which had thus been replaced by those of a less ideal nature and more of a practical one. It was no drastic change, but Emma, daughter to Sir Christophe Worthington, an Old England aristocrat, soon found herself becoming slowly immersed in a world where death was not always a curse but a blessing, and two wrongs more often than not made a right.

Eventually her ventures to the "darker" side of medicine ended in her sudden removal from the medical register, if only on Earth. From there things had only grown worse. Disowned by her father, for heaven knew it was not the done thing for a daughter of a well-respected aristocrat to actually be _caught_ dirtying her hands, she was forced to leave her home and family. Money left to her by her long deceased Grandfather, locked away in a bank account to grow in interest for years until she was old enough to claim it for herself, had more than covered the costs needed to finance her trip off-world. She considered herself lucky, that being a part of Old Money would near enough leave her financially sound for the rest of her life.

But even though she was born into a life of glamour and prestige, she no longer lived such a life. Not six months after she'd left home, Emma Roberts aka, Eleanor Worthington was recruited at a maximum security prison, better known as Slam City.

It was there that she made several friends of a somewhat unsavoury nature, and it was there that she met Richard B. Riddick.

She remained at Slam City for a little over two years, and left only a few months after Riddick's escape. Emma had known of his plans to break out months before he'd actually succeeded, and they'd kept in contact ever since. They were friends in the only way that two people like themselves could be.

Now Emma ran several private clinics across a number of planets, though she couldn't be there to personally overlook all of them for obvious reasons, and moved freely to where she was most needed. In this day and age star-hopping between her clinics was as simple and as easy as driving to work.

It was in clinics like these that she helped those who were unable to seek conventional medical assistance. She catered to the ex-cons (and in some cases, the not-so-ex-cons) of her past, people who were refused medical attention because they didn't have insurance, and even some of the upper-class crust who, like her, had followed a darker path and had been wounded because and despite of it.

When someone needed help, Emma was there, and right now there was an unconscious, sixteen-year-old girl on her operating table waiting for her to make things right again.

Except this time it was not in her power to make things better. It was up to a certain convict from her past to heal that particular hurt.

But whether Riddick would heed her advice or flee in spite of it, only he would know. Emma was just as helpless as Jack was at this particular moment in time.

Snapping on a pair of latex gloves and sighing heavily, Emma set down to work.

Riddick was by her bedside when Jack woke hours later.

She wondered fleetingly what it would have felt like to wake up without him there, petrified and alone in the dim gloom of the private clinic, and it was no surprise to her to realise that she would probably feel terrified, certain that he had abandoned her.

Nothing had changed. Three years later and she was still waking up to a fear that always made her blood run cold; a fear that Riddick would one day leave her.

She had lived with that hanging over her head for too long now. There was no wonder she felt so tired all the time, spending her days trying to live up to the expectations that Riddick subconsciously set her, never truly realising that fear of failure and a desperate need to make him proud were the only motives keeping her going.

Somewhere along the line she had begun to resent Riddick, and she hated herself for it. She hadn't just been angry at him because of his decision to leave her. She had been angry because for the last three years she had lived for no one but him. Everyone thought her so cute and naive, doting over Riddick like he was her knight in shining armour, but they never seemed to realise that, to Jack, he was. She had no family left, bar her mother who she did not consider family, and the only friend she had was a man twice her age who had saved her life.

But Jack knew that Riddick resented her a little, too. She was the only person tying him to one place and she knew Riddick never liked to settle. She was also the only surviving reminder of a time when he had made a decision to let the killer in him die.

He was struggling with that decision. He fought it only because she expected it of him.

Too many expectations, she thought, and too many fears.

They were both afraid of failing each other.

And so it was in that moment that Jack made a life-changing decision. It was made with a cold detachment and when it had been made she considered herself somewhat blessed that she still felt numb from surgery; emotion was slow-coming but clarity was not. She couldn't afford to think about how she would feel once the time came.

Once she made Riddick leave.

She tilted her head to glance at him and found him looking at her, eyes glowing in the dim light. Even in the gloom she could still see the small smile gracing his usually stoic features.

Something in her chest tightened and she felt the prick of tears in her eyes.

Not yet, she thought, a whisper of hysteria leaving her momentarily breathless. I don't want it to hurt. Not yet. Not yet. Not

"Painkillers," she gasped, and her tears slid free.


End file.
